


No Church in the Wild

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Repression (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Divinity Kink, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Painplay, Sex Work, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex, burns us both to love this close, healthy communication? they don't know her, holy fuck (literally), so many crossed wires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28361073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: The stem of the wineglass in Aziraphale’s hand snaps cleanly in two, but no one seems to hear it—every eye in the room is trained on the redheaded dancer sashaying to the gleaming silver pole, centre stage for all to see.Oh, Aziraphale thinks faintly.Good lord.[Or: the one where Aziraphale gets assigned to the red light district.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 294
Collections: Good Omens OTP Prompts Event Works





	1. The Garden Downstairs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the GO Events server OTP Prompts event. The prompt is "Crowley giving Aziraphale a striptease." 
> 
> Please mind the tags! I've tried to tag everything that's coming up in the next couple of chapters, but I may update them as I go along.
> 
> Fic title inspired by [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEUGhEWhTUc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner art for this fic by the amazing [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) \- please check out the full version of the original art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935150/chapters/70962846), it's absolutely breathtaking and you HAVE to put it in your eyes.
> 
> If you're the kind of person that likes to listen to music while reading fics, I've got two recs for this chapter: [Lust by Kendrick Lamar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYuUOgED1sg) and [Crazy in Love by Beyonce](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfQ7ucGQdOM) (yes, the one from Fifty Shades lmao).
> 
> (Minor CW for referenced drug use in this chapter by a random human!)

  


The sky is lit up in watercolour brush strokes of vibrant orange and pink and blue as Aziraphale walks to his destination. His latest assignment is in the red-light district, and surprisingly enough, Heaven hasn’t had much occasion to send assignments like this his way. The area he’s headed to is right next to the central business district, and office workers are streaming out of the high-rises around him, many of them walking the same way as Aziraphale, their voices raised in happy celebration. It’s a Friday, after all, Aziraphale realises, the humans are probably off to have some drinks after work to celebrate the weekend.

The evening traffic is already beginning to build, and neon signs blaze into colour one by one as Aziraphale walks on. The corporate office buildings make way for smaller low-rises. This slightly more run-down area of town that the humans so regularly frequent is dotted with restaurants built into old-fashioned houses, apartment walk-ups with rooftop bars, holes-in-the-wall hiding the most excellent liquor selections. He wonders how the humans actually residing there can stand the noise. The rush is only just beginning.

He surreptitiously checks the elegantly written note from Heaven detailing his assignment as he comes to a stop before an old building, somewhat dilapidated from the outside. This must be the place, he thinks, nodding at the concierge and the security guard as he steps into the lobby. There’s a small convenience store next to the lobby, and he pushes the creaking door open. The clerk behind the counter greets him a good evening without looking up from their phone.

“I’m here for the, erm…” Aziraphale glances down at the note again. “Garden downstairs?”

The clerk looks at him sharply and nods. “Right this way.”

They lead Aziraphale past the counter and into the back room, harshly lit in white fluorescent light. There’s an ornately carved wooden door, so out of place in the drabness of the store that it was nearly absurd.

“Enjoy,” the clerk says tonelessly, and opens the door for Aziraphale. The thudding of music vibrates through the wall, and as Aziraphale peers into the darkness, he sees that there’s a dimly lit staircase leading downstairs into the basement. His mouth twists in distaste.

“Thank you,” he finally says to the clerk, who has started tapping their foot impatiently. He descends the stairs as the door shuts behind him, blocking out the light and leaving him in almost complete darkness—he nearly trips but manages to grab hold of the banister in time. As his eyes grow accustomed to the low light, he sees that there’s another door at the foot of the steps, and he pushes it open tentatively.

“Welcome to Eden,” a smoothly polite voice says, and he comes face-to-face with a woman so perfectly made up she resembles a fashion plate, clad only in a thin satin robe and a pair of towering black heels.

Aziraphale blinks for a moment before he recovers himself, recalling his assignment. He resists the urge to glance at the note in his hand a third time before he puts on a smile. “Good evening,” he says, politely keeping his eyes on her face. “I’m here to watch the finale.”

“Oh.” She looks surprised. “You’re a little early, but if you don’t mind waiting…”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale replies, and hands over the plastic card that Heaven has issued him for this assignment. The man behind the counter takes it and scans it for a moment, printing out a receipt that Aziraphale signs it without looking and hands it back to him. He exchanges a glance with the woman that doesn’t escape Aziraphale’s attention, and suddenly it makes sense to him just why Heaven had seen fit to issue him a credit card especially for this. Humans have always been a great deal more willing to turn a blind eye where wealth is involved, thus lessening any need for frivolous miracles.

The woman leads Aziraphale from the anteroom to a plush velvet curtain in dark red. She holds it aside and he sees that it conceals yet another door.

“After you,” she says with a smile. He pushes the door open and the throbbing of the bass line comes into full force, a low-level pulse that he can feel vibrating in his very bones. There’s a large platform extending to the centre of the room, rather like a fashion runway. There are very few customers so far, but there are bouncers aplenty standing about the room, glowering at no one in particular.

“Will anyone be joining you tonight?”

“No,” Aziraphale answers. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer a table a little closer to the stage.”

She eyes him speculatively for a moment. “You could sit _at_ the stage, if you prefer?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Not a problem.” She waves at another woman clasping a tray, dressed in an identical silk robe but with heels that lace halfway up her calves. “Eve here will take you to your table. Table six, if you please,” she adds in an undertone.

Eve nods in acknowledgment. “Welcome to Eden,” she says to Aziraphale with a smile. “Right this way.” She seats him at a table with an excellent view of the stage and hands him a menu, delicately embossed with a monogram that reminds Aziraphale of a gnarled tree. “We’ve got a selection of small platters to go with our bar menu, in case you’d like something to eat. The show won’t be starting for a while, I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry.” He smiles at her. “Might I have a few minutes to decide?”

“Of course.” She gestures at the bar on the other side of the room. “I’ll be right there, but you can ask any of the staff for me when you’re ready to order.”

He nods and thanks her, and as she walks away, he glances down at the menu. There isn’t much in the way of food, mostly cheese platters and meat boards, but that would do—this isn’t his usual sort of assignment, and it wouldn’t do to be overly distracted. Time enough to enjoy himself elsewhere once this is over.

In any case, despite the lack of variety of food, his spirits lift at the wide array of liquor and wine available, all of the rather expensive variety. He takes his time going over the menu before he selects a lovely cabernet sauvignon for himself. Much as he’s loathe to admit it, this bar has an impressive selection. He looks up, but Eve is still on the other side of the room leaning over the bar, engrossed in conversation with the bartender.

It’s not like he’s in a rush, either way. Discreetly, he pulls out the note from his pocket and goes over it once more, the paper illuminated by the brightly coloured lights from the stage.

_High levels of demonic interference detected in a speakeasy called Eden, spiking between 1-3 a.m. on certain nights of the week. Said human establishment is becoming more popular with a certain clientele. Investigate and report back in no less than two (2) weeks. Thwart demons in attendance, if any, with whatever force is necessary._

Aziraphale tries not to think about the fact that there was only ever one demon assigned on Earth, apart from the occasional stragglers from Hell who want to take a look around every now and then. He looks around covertly and closes his eyes, reaching out with his angelic senses. He carefully surveys the bar, the entire building, even the street outside—but whatever _demonic interference_ might be afoot, it isn’t around just yet, though he can feel the remnants of occult power that hang in the air, dormant and formless.

It’s still too early for the temptation to be up and about, perhaps. With a sigh, Aziraphale opens his eyes, folding up the note carefully and tucking it back into a pocket of his coat. Just in time, too. Eve has returned to his table.

“See anything you might be interested in?”

He feels the heat travelling up his neck at her choice of words, the polite customer service voice thinly veiling the open curiosity of her eyes. To these humans, his appearance must be quite puzzling, he surmises, all formally buttoned up at a strip club. “I’ll have the cheddar platter and a bottle of the 1990 Chateau Gruaud-Larose, if you’d be so kind.”

“All right,” she says, picking up the menu with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Now that Aziraphale is at leisure to examine the place more carefully, he realises that it’s quite beautifully designed, for an establishment of this sort. Verdant, lush plants in every corner, splashes of green contrasting with the interior motif of elegant greys and dark woods for the furniture and fixtures. He wonders what names the rest of the staff have chosen to baptise themselves with—all Biblical appellations, no doubt, to match the theme.

The heat rises to his face as he realises that he’s been subconsciously keeping the eyes of his ethereal form open, as it were, waiting for a certain demon to appear without warning, armed with dark sunglasses and his usual insouciant air. Quickly, he withdraws his angelic power, keeps it firmly under his control for now. After all, there’s no telling what sort of wiles Hell might suddenly concoct. If another demon sensed his presence here, he’d be trapped right in the lion’s den. Better to stay inconspicuous for now, at least until he knows what exactly is going on.

Then again, he supposes, what other temptations would go on in a place like this other than what’s so obviously on display? He eyes the waitstaff, all feminine-presenting humans dressed in identical black robes, so thin that it barely conceals the outline of their bodies. Tonight’s business should be fairly straightforward, then. Find confirmation of his suspicions first, then decide on a plan of action. That would do for now.

Aziraphale wipes his sweaty palms furtively on his trousers. It’s been quite a few years since he’s last seen Crowley. A few decades now, in fact, since Hell sent him on some assignment abroad. That was the last Aziraphale had heard of him since then. Of course, it isn’t as though he’s been expecting Crowley to write or to call as if they’re _friends_ or anything like that—it’s just that he’s been expecting Crowley to have shown up by now with some sort of favour in exchange for a temptation he needs Aziraphale’s help with, and it’s been quite a while, and certainly Crowley must be all right, he’s just busy, or preoccupied with doing whatever it is he’s been getting up to these days, one never knew what Crowley got into his head in his spare time—

His train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of his wine. Eve sets a wineglass down carefully before him and pours the wine for him with a practised hand before setting the bottle down on the table.

“Let me know if you’d like anything else,” she says. “Your food will be coming up in a bit.”

Aziraphale thanks her and picks up the wineglass, swirling the wine around gently before taking a delicate whiff. It smells positively ambrosial, and he sighs with delight before taking a sip, allowing the full-bodied flavours to spread over his tongue and palate. A superb vintage indeed.

The room is slowly beginning to fill with humans of varying genders and presentations. All of them are well-dressed, brimming with the sort of careless confidence that deep pockets bring. Aziraphale watches them milling about for some time, clutching wineglasses and tumblers of whiskey and chatting with one another, but there’s nothing that gives away any sign that they’re under a temptation of any sort.

As he’s pondering this, Eve reappears.

“Here you go,” she says, and sets down a small tray of various cheeses on the table. “If you want anything else, just ask for me.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale surveys the tray before him—it looks delectable, and he tells her so. She beams.

“A man of taste,” Eve declares, nodding sagely. “That cheese selection pairs excellently with the wine you ordered. Though I might guess you knew that already.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I did indeed.”

“I’m not surprised,” she laughs. “Enjoy. It will be a while before the finale, but there will be several other performances before then.”

Aziraphale takes his time with his food, enjoying each bite as the show begines. More and more customers arrive as the night wears on. The performances are spectacular as far as showmanship is concerned, and the dancers are clearly skilled at their art. But after some time, Aziraphale’s attention begins to flag as the humans grow more and more boisterous with alcohol and who knows what else—he pointedly looks away from the next table, where a human is dragging the edge of a credit card on the table in a surreptitious motion before lowering his face and inhaling sharply.

He orders another charcuterie board with a second bottle of wine and scans the establishment for demonic activity, but still, there is nothing. Halfway through the second bottle he sighs, feeling rather baffled. There doesn’t seem to be anything strange here, apart from the usual sort of debauchery that goes on in places like this. Perhaps there was an erratum in the memo Heaven had issued him? He reaches into his pocket to check the missive he’d been sent just one more time, to be certain.

Just then, the light dims, shifting to a simmering red glow. A slower song begins to play over the speakers—a piano instrumental accompanying a sultry voice, underscored by a heavy bass, the thud of the synthesised percussion thudding slow and deliberate. A slender figure steps out from backstage, impossibly high heels clacking on the stage, the mood lighting revealing the lines of a slim body under a sheer black robe.

Somewhere in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, he contemplates checking if there is a temptation flowing into the room, but somehow, he can’t seem to look away long enough to concentrate.

The dancer saunters forward slowly, every step deliberate, smooth and sinuous, a marvel of mastery over the human form. The stage lights turn up slightly, catching on a fiery head of red curls. Aziraphale’s breath hitches in his throat and heat floods his face as he takes in the stylish dark sunglasses, the black serpent tattoo visible even from this distance on the angular face that he knows far too well.

Halfway up the runway, the dancer pauses. From this angle, Aziraphale can see the details of the robe, painstakingly embroidered in red and gold with the outline of a massive snake, coils looping around the hips and shoulders.

A graceful hand reaches for the sash that’s loosely tied around the thin waist and begins to pull, slowly, so agonisingly slowly. The satin robe parts like a curtain, revealing a thin strip of milk-white skin. A sudden rush of warmth gathers in Aziraphale’s stomach at the sight—he couldn’t have torn his eyes away even if he tried.

The robe spills from the slender shoulders and drops to the ground, pooling around the elegant black heels. Aziraphale’s mouth has gone dry, and his heart is pounding a quick staccato drumbeat in his chest in time to the music. Beneath the robe is an intricate black lace garment, straps crisscrossing along the smooth expanse of a flat stomach, highlighting the dimples above the small curves of the buttocks, a thin garter dipping in the valley between them.

The stem of the wineglass in Aziraphale’s hand snaps cleanly in two, but no one seems to hear it—every eye in the room is trained on the redheaded dancer sashaying to the gleaming silver pole, centre stage for all to see.

 _Oh,_ Aziraphale thinks faintly _. Good lord_.

All of a sudden, he’s hyper-aware of just how many people there are in the room, all of them watching the elegant figure onstage with so much skin laid bare, and a shocking wave of heat nearly throws him off-balance. He can barely think through the music throbbing in his bones, the insistent pounding of his heart, the straps of garter and lace that reveal so much of Crowley in a way Aziraphale has never seen him before. Dimly, he registers the broken wineglass on the table, the small cuts on his hand, but his mind is full of Crowley’s lithe body and smooth skin, all slight curves and well-defined edges.

The cacophony of sight and sound leaves Aziraphale reeling. For one wild moment, he nearly dares to get up from his table and sit at a chair next to the stage, but he can’t seem to make his muscles move. His entire corporation seems bent on sitting still and watching the entire performance. And so he’s helpless to do nothing but watch—to see the hands tucking bills into the delicate lingerie as Crowley tosses his mane of red curls back and smiles, _winks—_ Aziraphale is lightheaded, too dizzy to move, but wanting nothing more than to clear the entire room of humans and have Crowley all to himself. A show only for him. A powerful rush of desire floods through his body, leaving him shaken.

Then the thought occurs to him, as a shiver runs through his body at the way Crowley is undulating against the pole, hips swaying dangerously—isn’t that something one could ask for, in this kind of place?

He pushes the thought away, immediately ashamed. He and Crowley, they’re _friends,_ whatever else Aziraphale might say to the contrary where Heaven might hear him—what is he thinking? What is he even still doing here ogling Crowley like this?

But just then, Crowley does a complicated-looking spin on the pole that ends with him upside down—and with an unbearably agonising slowness, he spreads his legs, right there in plain view, the crowd’s attention fixed on him like a spotlight with nothing but a thin strip of lace covering his—

The rest of the wineglass shatters into tiny pieces on the floor as Aziraphale gets to his feet and strides to the bar, where Eve is once again chatting happily with the bartender.

“Oh,” she says, looking surprised—the dance isn’t over, after all, and isn’t that what he came here to see? “Something I can get you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. His voice is surprisingly steady despite the thundering in his veins, so many emotions so closely entwined that they’re impossible to extricate from one another. “I believe it is possible for me to pay for a private performance, is it not?”

He doesn’t miss the way Eve exchanges a quick glance with the bartender. “I—yes,” she says hesitantly. “Would it be Lilith that you would be requesting?”

“Lilith?” Aziraphale echoes, puzzled. Eve nods in the direction of the stage. _Ah._ He nearly smiles. Rather on the nose, even for Crowley, he thinks.

“I should warn you, though… it’s rare she accepts a request for a private dance,” Eve adds quickly. “We’ll have to check with her first.”

“I see.” Aziraphale licks his lips, and the next words spill from his tongue before he can think. “Tell her to name her price.”

—

“Gorgeous as always,” Delilah says, dropping a wink at Crowley.

“You know I aim to please,” he drawls, draping himself casually over one of the bar stools. He reaches up to tug his silk robe back up over his shoulder—but on second thought, maybe not. Give the humans something else to sin about. Not that they aren’t already looking, he thinks to himself, shrugging slightly so the robe slides down just an inch lower.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Delilah rolls her eyes as she slides a whiskey on the rocks over the counter.

“Now, now. You know we keep our choices open in this house.” Crowley says, smirking. He picks up the glass and tosses the whiskey back in one gulp, savouring the burn scraping down his throat.

“And boys. Whatever you feel like at the moment, I guess,” Delilah adds as an afterthought. “Speaking of which, Eve was looking for you earlier. Think you might have a special guest tonight.” She cranes her neck over Crowley’s head, crooks a beckoning finger.

“Nope. I’m tired. And busy. Get someone else to do it.” Crowley pushes his glass back over for a refill. “Make it a double.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so.” She pours another finger of whiskey into the glass, but no more. “You might be interested in this one.”

Right on cue, Eve appears right next to him, beaming gaily. Crowley takes one look at her and throws back the whiskey in one swallow.

“Lilith,” Delilah says reprovingly. “If you wanted to do shots, I would have given you the cheap stuff.”

“It’s my whiskey,” he protests.

She gives him an appraising look but chooses not to argue. She nods at Eve instead.

“Okay, hear us out—”

Crowley groans. “No is no. Did you need another of those consent workshops?”

Eve glares at him. “Everyone in here is perfectly capable of drop-kicking someone in the face and you know it.”

“No thanks to me,” Crowley says wryly, staring at his glass and wondering how he could convince Delilah into giving him another.

“ _Anyway._ _”_ Eve drops into the stool next to him. “You’ve got a dance booked in fifteen minutes.”

“What?” Crowley yelps. “I already told you, no bookings unless—”

“Unless it’s someone famous, or someone who’s a big deal. Yeah, yeah.” Delilah sighs. “We’re just saying—”

“First of all, he got here an hour before the show even started. To watch _you._ ”

“So what?” This doesn’t sound like anything special. Lots of humans come to watch Crowley perform. That’s the whole point of this establishment.

“Lilith, you should have seen the look on his _face,_ ” Eve continues, her eyes bright with excitement. “He broke the stem of his wineglass _._ ”

“He _what?_ ” Well, that’s certainly new.

Eve smirks. He really needs to stop doing that around the girls, they’re picking it up. “You heard me. He didn’t even wait for the end of your performance. Booked you straight away, right in the middle of your dance.”

Crowley thinks for a moment. Could be a chance for another successful temptation, and with very little effort on his part. “Did you tell him how much it would cost?”

“He didn’t even ask.” Eve raises her eyebrows at him. “Name your price, he said.”

This is getting interesting. With just a tiny bit of luck, he’d wiggle his fingers at a black credit card and reach Eden’s sales quota for the month. He heaves a sigh of mock exhaustion. “Well, if I must.”

Eve lets out a squeak of elation. Delilah rolls her eyes but pours him another whiskey unprompted. “Here, you’ve earned it.”

“Not yet,” he says, his lips curving up. “But I will.”

“Better go freshen up, then,” Delilah says, dropping her eyes significantly to his chest and back up to his face.

“Yeah, yeah.” He drinks the last shot of whiskey and slams the glass down on the table, feeling pleasantly warm. “You’re master of the ship for the next half hour, Delilah. Don’t let me down.”

“Take all the time you want,” she retorts, laughing.

Eve trails behind Crowley all the way to his dressing room. “Oh, Lilith. He’s just your type.”

“That sounds promising,” Crowley agrees. “Also, since when did you know my type?”

“Trust me when I say it wasn’t that hard for us to figure out,” Eve says, laughing. “He’s a little on the older side, but really quite attractive. You know, in a gentlemanly sort of way. Blond hair, blue eyes.”

“That so?” He ignores the dull pain in his chest at her words. Since when did the girls have his number like this? It really is beyond mortifying.

Eve giggles. “Anyway, he’s up in room three, okay? I’ll tell him you’ll be up in five minutes.”

“Fine.” Crowley sighs theatrically. “I’m going to take my damn sweet time, so you better let him know.”

“You could take all night and I bet he’d still be there waiting for you.” Eve winks at him slyly before heading upstairs, presumably to tell his client that he’d be at least another quarter of an hour. Crowley is nothing if not skilled in his line of work, and he knows there isn’t anything in the world that can draw desire out more than _waiting._

The door clicks shut behind him as Crowley saunters to his vanity. The girls convinced him to get one of those mirrors lit up by light bulbs all around the frame. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and has to admit it was a good recommendation. The lights hide everything that could be called an imperfection—the lines around his eyes and mouth, the sunken hollows of his cheeks, the freckles that marked his body.

He opens a drawer, draws out his brightest red lipstick, reapplying it carefully where the colour has faded from the centre of his lips. He loves the whole ritual of this—the feather-light touch of the makeup brush over his cheekbones, the drag of eyeliner across his lids, a swipe of glitter to draw out his clavicles. A dab of fragrance behind his ears, the base of his throat, the dip between his breasts, the inner crease of his elbow. He snaps his fingers and the bills tucked into the garter around his torso vanish, reappearing in the bar’s tip jar with a thought.

It’s not often Crowley gets special clients, and he has to admit his curiosity has been properly piqued. At the last minute, he decides to change into a thinner negligée, a tulle and lace wraparound number that conceals just enough of him to leave what he’s wearing beneath a surprise.

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. It’s the sense of control he enjoys most about this assignment. The knowledge that he can undo so many virtues all at once with nothing more than a few well-placed changes to his corporation, a touch of lace and satin, a pair of black heels with red soles. Efficiency has always been one of his strong suits, and this assignment is certainly no exception. Why bother with tempting humans one at a time here when it would be much easier to purchase an entire establishment and corrupt so many of them at once?

Not to mention how much more _fun_ he could have this way.

He doesn’t think he’s going to take more private bookings after this. Frankly, he doesn’t need to. He’s filling his quotas both at the sales counter and Downstairs as it is. This will be the last one, he thinks, so he’d better make it worth it.

A temptation, then. He sinks languorously back into his chair, closing his eyes. What kind of temptation might be fun to pull on the poor bastard waiting in the little room for him? He's already putting together a formula in his head. Three cupfuls of desire, a few heaping spoonfuls of greed. A dash of fear, a large pinch of pride, to taste. Stir it all together with a stick of guilt. The perfect cocktail for him to sip as Crowley danced. 

One last look at his reflection. He turns his head, examining his makeup from every angle, fluffing up his curls so that they look just a little dishevelled. As though he had just gotten out of bed, that’s what the girls call it. _I woke up like this._ He gets up and surveys his corporation—he’s added just a little more curve than he usually would around his hips and chest, and surprisingly, it doesn’t look too shabby on him. Carefully, he arranges the robe to make sure it’s artfully draped over him, revealing just enough of the new curves he’s wearing. Makes a better first impression that way, drawing a client’s gaze exactly where Crowley wants it.

The door to the dressing room clicks shut behind him, and he makes his way upstairs to the little room where his client is waiting for him.

For a second, he pauses in the hallway. He takes a breath, concentrating, and presses his palm flat against the door. He exhales slowly, letting the concoction of his temptation flow into the room—he waits until he can feel it flooding into the four corners of its tiny space, inexorable and demanding.

It’s showtime. The familiar rush of adrenaline is coursing through his veins the way it always does right before a performance. He takes a deep breath and turns the doorknob, stepping into the heady atmosphere of his final temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my gratitude and love as always to Jenanigans1207 and NaroMoreau for always cheering me on, especially when this fic was fighting me during its early days!
> 
> About 3/4 of this is already written, so you can expect the next update soon! Don't forget to subscribe if you liked this <3


	2. Tempting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley runs a hand over the pole before he turns to look at Aziraphale. 
> 
> “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll make sure you get what you’re paying for.”
> 
> Without further ado, his long fingers pull at the sash around his waist, and he shrugs off the thin black robe, a snake shedding its skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait a couple more days to post this, but I think we could all use a distraction in these trying times.
> 
> FIRST OF ALL - please feast your eyes on [this gorgeous art](https://anthonyandaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/638680555221925888/i-did-a-quick-fanart-for-contraststudies-s-new) by anthonyandaziraphale. Thank you for illustrating the stripper Crowley of my dreams, you are an absolute gem!!!
> 
> A few songs for this chapter, if you're so inclined: [Nightstand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGhanwABoSI) by YNG Martyr and [Love Lockdown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8s8_TLp3Mc) by Kanye West.

The ethereal self has its own set of senses, and Aziraphale’s lights up the moment the temptation seeps into the room. If he has to describe what it’s like, the closest he can get is to talk about it in terms of a scent. Unseen and unheard, it permeates every corner of the room, filling the nostrils, potent and irresistible. The very nature of the temptation works in its favour. It makes the temptee want nothing more than to drag in lungfuls of it until the temptation fully sets in, connecting with every nerve and synapse to create an illusion of exhilarating intoxication.

Of course, temptations don’t work on angels the way they do on humans. Angels can sense temptations immediately and have the ability to hold their breath until the air clears, so to speak. If they are caught off-guard by a temptation, they can always flush it out of their system, not far off from sobering up after a night of unbridled alcohol consumption.

The temptation that’s rapidly suffusing the tiny room is quite the interesting blend, subtle yet openly provocative, a stimulant rather than a depressant, so powerful that Aziraphale can practically taste it on his tongue. But oddly enough, the only word Aziraphale can think of to describe it is _pure,_ in the sense of both _clean_ and _unadulterated,_ as though it brightens rather than taints the air.

Aziraphale can feel his pulse pounding hard. He only has a few seconds to decide what to do, knowing exactly whose hands are laying this trap. Because more than anything, he _wants._ He wants so much he’s near drunk with it. He can feel his own desire thrumming thick and hot in his veins, overcoming nearly every angelic instinct that’s screaming at him to use his Grace to dispel every trace of demonic power, so palpable the quilted walls are fairly dripping with it.

Suddenly, he realises that the perfect opportunity has just been served to him on a silver platter. He can report back to Heaven with the excuse that he had been overpowered by the temptation unexpectedly saturating the air. He’d been unable to thwart that wile, but he’ll do better the next time he tries, because he won’t be caught unaware a second time.

Truth be told, Aziraphale isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince, Heaven or himself, but he can no longer deny he was done for the moment that mane of red curls caught the glare of the stage lights. There has always been a part of him that’s burned for Crowley, to touch him, to _possess_ him in every way possible. Aziraphale has always been able to restrain himself with moderate levels of success until now. Seeing Crowley on that stage was like dropping a match into a pool of kerosene, igniting his long-suppressed desire, setting every inch of him alight. He wants. He _needs._

Perhaps there was no decision to be made after all—Aziraphale had already made his choice the moment the wineglass snapped between his fingers.

He closes his eyes and inhales, taking deep breaths, consciously lowering his angelic defences and letting the temptation settle into his body, warm and sweet as honey, musk-smoke-cinnamon in his nostrils. He doesn’t know what’s more intoxicating, the temptation filling him, or the thought that this is Crowley’s very essence pervading the room, being drawn into Aziraphale’s lungs with every inhale.

Giving in to the temptation is like sinking into a hot bath—the heat of it leaves Aziraphale’s limbs relaxed, his mind pleasantly heavy—but something about it is deeply electrifying, firing every nerve in his skin. The velvet seat of the couch he’s sitting on is suddenly tantalising under his touch. He digs his fingers into its plush surface, sighing at the simple pleasure of it beneath his palm.

Aziraphale registers somewhere in the pleasant haze that there’s a steady throbbing in the room, a bass line pulsing through a concealed set of speakers, gradually increasing in volume as the overhead lights dim. He blinks uncertainly, adjusting to the muted lighting, wondering vaguely what sort of music is playing—it certainly isn’t jazz or classical music, the vocals at a cadence that matched the bass line—but in the middle of this line of musing, the door clicks open.

The breath catches in Aziraphale’s chest as Crowley enters. His leisurely saunter is as distinctive as ever—Aziraphale had recognised him the moment he had stepped onstage.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses, folding them up and placing them carefully down on the side table next to the couch. At last, he looks up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze.

A jolt runs through Aziraphale when their eyes lock. As fetching as Crowley is right now, nothing can ever hold Aziraphale’s attention the way those golden eyes with their vertical black slits could.

But Crowley looks as though he’s been knocked completely off-kilter by the sight of Aziraphale sitting there—he actually sways on his feet and has to steady himself with one hand on the arm of the couch.

For a long moment, the room is completely silent, save for the steady beat of the music and the rush of blood in Aziraphale’s ears.

“A-Aziraphale,” Crowley says faintly. “What the Heaven are you doing here?”

“Hello,” Aziraphale says, slightly breathless. Crowley onstage pales in comparison to how he looks now. He’s absolutely _ravishing_ up close. Aziraphale has to swallow before he manages to speak. “I’m on an assignment.”

“Are you, now.” It’s not a question.

Aziraphale wonders why Crowley looks so alarmed all of a sudden, and hastens to reassure him. “Only fact-finding for tonight, that’s all.” Frankly, it’s near impossible to think when all he wants to do right now is to grab Crowley and kiss him senseless. “Perhaps you could help me?”

“Sure, why not.” Crowley shrugs in a transparent attempt at his usual insouciance, but the effect is rather spoiled by the way that he tugs one shoulder of his robe closed, covering up the inviting expanse of smooth skin on his chest. It’s thoroughly distracting. “What do you need?”

 _You._ The word nearly falls from Aziraphale’s lips, but he manages to control himself just in time. “I’ve been sent to check on what’s been going on in this establishment. A veritable den of iniquity, apparently, if you’ve caught Heaven’s eye.”

Crowley raises a perfectly drawn eyebrow at him. “You’ve seen it,” he says abruptly. “It’s a strip club. I’m assuming you watched the show.”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I did.”

Even in the soft light, Aziraphale can see that the most attractive flush has risen to Crowley’s face. “Well. There you have it.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. He hesitates for a moment before he plunges on. “You—you were wonderful. I had no idea you could dance so well.”

A splutter of consonants is all Aziraphale gets for his efforts. “ _Ngk._ Angel, you can’t just say things like that.”

“And why not?” Aziraphale asks, puzzled. “It’s true.”

Crowley stammers a little more before he decides to avoid the topic entirely. “Anyway, what are you going to do now?”

Aziraphale edges a little closer to where Crowley is standing frozen at the other end of the couch. “Well, I was under the impression I hadn’t quite seen everything this establishment has to offer.” His heart is suddenly beating faster in his chest, and he licks his lips before he speaks again. “I don’t suppose you could humour me, for old times’ sake? I’d hate for Head Office to think I hadn’t done my due diligence.”

“Due diligence,” Crowley repeats weakly. “What exactly are you asking me?”

“Well, seeing as we’re already here…” Aziraphale gestures at the pole before him, the tiny raised platform. “Perhaps you could indulge me.”

This request hangs in the air between them, the implications of it as discernible as Crowley’s temptation.

“Angel…” Crowley shakes his head, and there’s a strangely wounded look in his golden eyes. “You—you don’t know what you’re asking for. Look, I didn’t know you’d be in here, why didn’t you tell me?”

Aziraphale wants to reach for him, to soothe the furrow between his brows away with his fingers. “I wasn’t sure it was you. It could have been another demon.”

“You know full well I’m the only demon assigned on Earth.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, steeling himself before he moves even closer, placing his hand on top of Crowley’s hand clenched around the arm of the couch. “I’d very much like to see you once more, if that’s all right,” he says softly. He can feel the heat of Crowley’s hand under his, nearly scorching with how sensitive his skin is right now under the influence of the temptation. “Think of it as a request for an encore.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh, but every line of his body is stiff with tension. “Aziraphale, this isn’t a performance from a bloody _orchestra—_ _”_

“But the point still stands.” It occurs to Aziraphale that Crowley might be concerned about their Arrangement. He should try to make this an equitable exchange for Crowley, as best as he can. “You can charge it all to Heaven, as much as you want. They issued me the card, I may as well use it.”

To his surprise, Crowley flinches, an instant of vulnerability in his bare eyes before they’re shuttered once more. A beat passes before Crowley speaks again. “All right, if that’s how you want it,” he says abruptly, his voice low. “In return, you’ll have done your due diligence for Upstairs. Does that suit you?”

It doesn’t at all, not least because Aziraphale wants so much _more_ than that. But for now, he nods. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Haven’t done anything yet,” Crowley says. “Maybe when the show’s over, I’ll think about letting you thank me.”

Oh, was that a _promise?_ Aziraphale’s mouth is suddenly dry. “I do hope you will,” he murmurs.

Crowley looks at him sharply but says nothing. Instead, he snaps his fingers, turning up the music before stepping onto the platform. He runs a hand over the pole before he turns to look at Aziraphale once more. “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll make sure you get what you’re paying for.”

Without further ado, his long fingers pull at the sash around his waist, and he shrugs off the thin black robe, a snake shedding its skin.

From this close, Aziraphale can see just how sheer the lace is on the lingerie Crowley is wearing—it barely conceals Crowley’s pert nipples, the cleft between his legs. Aziraphale’s desire rears its head once more, edged by sheer possessiveness. Oddly enough, he’s furious at the thought that all those humans downstairs had seen Crowley in all his magnificence. A few of them had even had the audacity to brush their fingers against the smooth skin to tuck a bill into the straps that bound themselves tightly around Crowley’s slender torso. Surely it couldn’t hurt for Aziraphale to do the same?

A near complete silence takes over Aziraphale’s mind as Crowley begins to move. For the first minute, the dance is slightly wooden, a hint of self-consciousness in the reticence of Crowley’s movements. But it’s not long before he relaxes and settles, and soon his body is responding to the beat of the music, the sway of his hips sinuous and effortlessly graceful. It’s unbearably erotic to see how much he’s obviously enjoying himself, how skilled he is at this. He tosses his hair out of his face, his golden eyes hooded and sultry as they flick up to meet Aziraphale’s for a split second before he steps off the platform.

Crowley’s advancing towards Aziraphale, his legs making short work of the small distance between them, but so slowly that it feels like Aziraphale is frozen in place for an eternity on the couch, his fingers clenched tightly into fists on his lap.

“Relax, angel,” Crowley says quietly, his lips twitching slightly like he’s trying not to laugh. “You paid for the full show, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale nods and opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Crowley smirks. “Deep breath,” he says, prodding Aziraphale lightly on the chest, and only then does Aziraphale realise that he’s stopped breathing entirely. He inhales, which is a mistake—with Crowley just a few inches from him, he can smell the fragrance he’s wearing, subtle but distinct, lavender and citrus edged with vanilla and patchouli. (Did it always have those cedar notes at its base? That’s new. Aziraphale rather likes it.) The scent makes for an intoxicating blend in conjunction with the temptation, and a hot rush of desire floods Aziraphale as he looks up at Crowley, who’s towering above him in those absurdly high heels of his.

Carefully, Crowley moves Aziraphale’s limbs, lifting his left arm so that it’s stretched out over the back of the couch. He coaxes Aziraphale a few inches to the left so that he’s sitting a little nearer to the centre of the couch. Aziraphale lets him without comprehending why, but suddenly, every coherent thought pattern in his mind stutters to a stop as Crowley climbs onto his lap, one knee on either side of his clenched thighs.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is rough in his throat. “What are you doing?”

“It’s part of the show.” Crowley shrugs before he arches and throws his head back, his fingers ruffling through his luxurious curls. For a moment, Aziraphale genuinely thinks he’s about to pass out. “Just sit back and enjoy.”

“Can I—” Aziraphale’s lips form the words entirely without his permission before he clamps his mouth shut, heat flooding into his face.

Crowley has gone still. “Can you what?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to frame the next part of his sentence. Even he doesn’t know how he wants to end it.

His hand clenches tightly on the armrest, and the movement catches Crowley’s eye. His brows contract for a moment, his lips pressing together. “You want to… touch me?”

Oh, dear. Now Aziraphale has gone and upset him. He quickly snaps a thin wad of bills into existence and fumbles his way into tucking it into the garter around Crowley’s waist as he had seen the other patrons do, only with a great deal less finesse, trying to touch as little of Crowley’s bare skin as possible. He looks up at Crowley, trying for a smile, but Crowley’s face is as pinched as though he’s just eaten a lemon, the lines around his eyes tight.

“What are you doing?” Crowley says thinly.

“I, erm…” Aziraphale flounders for an answer. “I hear it’s what you do at these types of places, isn’t it? Isn’t it appropriate to tip?”

Aziraphale immediately knows he’s put his foot in his mouth by the way Crowley’s gaze darkens. “It is,” he says finally. “But you…” He seems to be struggling to speak for a moment before his face closes off, his expression smoothing out to something more like his usual careless ease. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Did I say something—”

“Doesn’t matter, angel,” Crowley cuts him off. He only hesitates for a moment before he continues. “And if you’re tipping me that much, well, I better have something to show for it, don’t you think?” Before Aziraphale can object further, he takes Aziraphale’s hands, places them on his hips. “You can touch me. If you want.”

 _Oh._ Crowley is so warm under Aziraphale’s hands, his skin so smooth and yielding. For a second, the temptation thrumming in his veins whispers for him to take everything that Crowley’s offering, to touch as much as he will be permitted—but he swallows hard, pushing his desire down, though he’s already half-hard in his trousers. He contents himself with a quick swipe over the delicate lace with one thumb, and feels how Crowley shivers minutely beneath his palms.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to rip the lace to shreds. “If this isn’t all right with you, I—”

But Crowley is already shaking his head. “No, no. S’fine, really. I’m just…” The slight swell of his chest is rising and falling visibly. “This isn’t that sort of place, you know? We’re pretty strict about it here. No one touches the girls.”

Aziraphale snatches his hands away, suddenly horrified. “Oh, goodness. Of course. I shouldn’t have assumed—that is, I… do forgive me, I didn’t mean to make any—”

“No, angel,” Crowley says. He reaches for Aziraphale’s hands, twining their fingers together. Somehow, even with every inch of Crowley Aziraphale has seen tonight, this seems more shockingly intimate than anything else. “You can,” he says, and shuts his eyes for a moment before guiding their joined hands to his shoulders. “You can,” he repeats, his voice ragged now, dragging Aziraphale’s palms down his chest, his stomach, his hips and thighs. “If you want.”

“But Crowley,” Aziraphale says slowly, trying in vain to ignore the way his cock is straining against his trousers. “Is this what _you_ want? You already told me this… this isn’t that kind of place.”

Crowley’s lips curve into his familiar smirk, but for some reason it’s turned down slightly at the corners. “Sure,” he says. “Let me give you something to write up in your report to Head Office.”

This cuts Aziraphale to the quick. “Certainly, if that’s what you want. You’ve given me enough excuse to with this temptation you’ve set.”

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale as though he’s been burned. “No, I—angel, I didn’t know you’d be in here,” he says, searching Aziraphale’s face urgently. “You know that, don’t you? I would never—”

“Yes, but you’ve gone and done it anyway,” Aziraphale says, and it’s like something in him snaps—his hands grab Crowley’s hips and tighten. The temptation is coursing at full force through him now. It would be easy enough to flush it out of his system, but that’s the last thing he wants right now. Why dispense of the perfect opportunity when this might be the only chance they’ll ever have? “It would be a shame to let your hard work go to waste.”

Crowley says nothing. He’s staring at Aziraphale, his eyes wide, completely exposed. Aziraphale reaches up, cups his face. “What do you say?”

A long pause. Aziraphale sees Crowley’s throat bob when he swallows, as though he’s steeling himself. “This is a bad idea,” he mutters, almost too softly for Aziraphale to hear. “You need to sober up.”

“Crowley—”

“That’s the temptation talking, angel.” Crowley interrupts, and he sounds as though he’s prying the words out of his throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

He tries to lever himself up, but Aziraphale’s hands hold Crowley firmly in his lap. “Crowley,” he says. _“Please.”_

—

Crowley has never been able to resist those eyes, especially not when they’re looking at him like that. Especially not when the thing Aziraphale is begging for is something Crowley has wanted to give for so long. Six thousand years he has waited for Aziraphale to touch him just like this, his broad hands tight around Crowley’s waist.

This is a mistake. Crowley doesn’t know just how deeply under the influence Aziraphale is—he can’t tell from the angel’s blown pupils how much of it is genuine and how much is manufactured by his own temptation. He takes a shaky breath. What if this is the only chance he’ll ever have? He doesn’t know how long his own self-restraint will last with Aziraphale’s thumb running circles on the sheer lace covering his ribs, a tiny movement he can feel all the way between his legs.

“Angel,” he says. “I meant what I said.”

“About what?”

“If we… if we go any farther than this. Will you write it up? Tell them I—” He exhales sharply. “I thwarted you?”

Aziraphale nods. “You would be welcome to do the same, of course.”

“And then—”

“We can talk about it next time,” Aziraphale interrupts. Crowley’s having some very complicated feelings about the promise of _next time_ in combination with the thought of getting what he wanted at the price of the angel not being in complete control of himself. “But for now…” The next words spill out of Aziraphale in a torrent. “I’d very much like to touch you. In every way you will allow me. You have no idea—” He shakes his head, the blush blooming on his cheeks. “Seeing you like this… oh, darling, you look _magnificent._ ”

Crowley can’t hold back the flinch at being called _darling,_ Lucifer’s pet name spoken in Aziraphale’s low voice—this isn’t Aziraphale at all, it’s his own temptation leading the angel in a direction they shouldn’t be taking. But he’s powerless against the heat of Aziraphale’s palms travelling lower, caressing his thighs, and he suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that Aziraphale is hard against him, burning with need between his legs. Holy _shit._ Crowley’s resolve is crumbling so fast that he’s barely aware of the next words tumbling from his lips. “You sure about this?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain of anything,” Aziraphale says softly, cupping Crowley’s face in both hands, the hunger in his eyes so apparent that Crowley has to bite his lip and look away. “You are the most gorgeous being I’ve ever beheld on this earth.”

The heat floods into Crowley’s face so fast he feels nearly lightheaded. “That’s you, angel,” he says, his throat dry. He reaches up and touches the end of the neat tartan bow tie, and he knows in that split second that all is lost—he’s too weak to resist Aziraphale like this, with all his words and his praise and his gentle touch.

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright, watching him expectantly.

Inexplicably, Crowley wants to weep. _I_ _’m sorry, angel._ “Yes,” he says at last. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Aziraphale’s hand pulls him closer until their foreheads are pressed together, and the gesture feels oddly misplaced, much too tender for the situation Crowley’s found himself in, sitting on an intoxicated angel’s lap with absolutely no idea what’s about to happen next.

“You,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You’re what I want.”

The words cleave Crowley to the very core. He’s waited so long to hear them, but they’re all twisted up in Aziraphale’s mouth by his own temptation. His voice is ragged in his throat. “Then have me.”

They’re so close together that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s breath ghosting against his face. How intimate is it that the very air the angel has breathed is entering Crowley’s damned lungs? It’s the last coherent thought he has before Aziraphale moves in, pressing their mouths together—and a sharp flash of pain has Crowley immediately pulling away in shock. He touches his lips, stunned. The kiss leaves behind a burning sensation on his mouth, lingering for a few long moments before fading.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks uncertainly. “Was it not… Was I—”

“No,” Crowley says immediately. “I-it was a surprise, is all.” He leans forward before Aziraphale can say anything more. It starts slow, nothing but a gentle press of lips, but the moment Aziraphale’s lips part, there it is again—and now Crowley can name it, a pain like stepping on consecrated ground. The burn of divinity stinging his lips. He manages not to flinch this time, forces his limbs to remain still as he gives way to the angel, the searing pain against his tongue as Aziraphale eagerly licks his way into his mouth.

Every particle of his demonic essence is screaming at him to pull away, but his corporation is reacting in very much the opposite direction—his hands curl into Aziraphale’s lapels, urging him on. The angel lets out a pleased hum, his arms wrapping around Crowley’s waist to pull him closer. Crowley groans and involuntarily rolls his hips, and Aziraphale gasps.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley’s ear, and he shudders, his master’s pet name completely incongruous with the holy burn behind his ear, trailing down his neck as Aziraphale presses long, lingering kisses all the way to his collarbones. “Won’t you please undress already?”

Crowley laughs shakily. “Thought you wanted the full show, angel. S’what you paid for, after all.”

Aziraphale’s mouth curves into a pout, surprisingly hurt. “Talented as you undoubtedly are, I would much rather have you already undressed right now. This is lovely, you know,” he says, caressing the lace over Crowley’s stomach. “I imagine you would be opposed to me tearing this off you.”

“I most certainly would be,” Crowley agrees, though his legs turn to water at the very thought of it. “I’ll have you know this is the only time I’ve ever worn this. Consider yourself lucky.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he beams up at Crowley, and really, it’s so unfair how it makes Crowley’s heart stutter in his chest. “I am the luckiest indeed,” he says, in a voice that Crowley can almost pretend is completely sincere. “But I’ve heard it said before that the most beautiful dresses are worn to be taken off… I could certainly say the same about this lingerie.”

“What a line, angel. You say that to all the demons?” Crowley’s sure his face is flaming as red as his hair as he raises his hand.

With a snap of his fingers, the lingerie disappears, and only then does he realise that Aziraphale is still completely clothed. Nothing about this should feel intimate, because it wouldn’t even be happening if it weren’t for his temptation— and yet _everything_ about it does, everything from the way Aziraphale is twisting a curl of Crowley’s red hair around his finger to the heat of his gaze raking down Crowley’s body.

Aziraphale laughs shortly. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says, his voice grating in his throat, sending a thrill down Crowley’s spine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“I really don’t,” Crowley says quietly. “Tell me.” He closes his eyes—if he can’t see Aziraphale’s blown pupils, he can imagine that this is all real, not just the result of an error of judgment on his part.

“For much longer than even I knew,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley lets out a sharp breath as the blessed burn of Aziraphale’s mouth closes around his nipple.

“Angel,” Crowley gasps out, writhing helplessly in Aziraphale’s grasp, trapped by the arm around his waist.

“Do you know when I realised it?”

“When?” Crowley’s voice is a rasp in his throat, his back arching involuntarily into Aziraphale’s mouth as his tongue traces a circle around Crowley’s other nipple, the flare of heat still lingering on the one Aziraphale had been lavishing his attention on for so long.

“When you walked into a church for me and I saw you hopping your way down that aisle.”

Through the haze of pleasure and pain, Crowley wonders if he should tell Aziraphale that the church was like blistering hot sand under his bare feet, and that the angel’s tongue feels exactly the same. “When you saved my books. When you drove me home. When I saw you driving the Bentley the first time.”

“You _hate_ my driving—” Crowley’s words are cut off by the burn against his mouth, and now it’s definitely more pleasure than pain, and he parts his lips willingly for Aziraphale, allowing him to explore his mouth to his content.

Aziraphale’s fingers are moving against his thigh, travelling up to the apex between his legs. A moan escapes his lips as they brush against him, the gentleness of his touch at odds with the way the angel has been kissing him, demanding and intent.

“What a mess you are,” Aziraphale says, smiling against Crowley’s lips. “You’ve left my trousers soaked.”

“Look, these parts are like this and you know it,” Crowley protests, but he completely loses his train of thought when the arm around his waist tugs him back up so he’s kneeling over Aziraphale. He sighs as two of Aziraphale’s fingers swirl around his clit slowly, his hips bucking involuntarily. “ _Angel—_ _”_

“Are you enjoying this?” Aziraphale murmurs, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s face.

Crowley takes one look at him and closes his eyes, tries to lose himself in the pleasure. “What do you think?” He groans as Aziraphale dips a finger into him, moving once, twice, before withdrawing. “Angel, you bloody tease—”

“Shh, darling,” Aziraphale soothes him. Under Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley can almost forget how the word sounds dripping with sweetness from Lucifer’s tongue. “It’s your turn to enjoy yourself.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “This isn’t what you _paid_ for—”

“I assure you, seeing you like this is infinitely better than any show you could put on for me. Not that you aren’t very good at it, of course you are,” Aziraphale adds, heading off the protest that’s already forming on Crowley’s lips. “But to please you like this pleases me more than anything.”

“Wait until I’m pleasing _you,_ _”_ Crowley says, biting his lip under Aziraphale’s ministrations. He can feel just how wet he is as he rolls his hips, chasing Aziraphale's touch.

Aziraphale hums. “I have complete faith in your skills,” he says, as Crowley snorts. “You know what I mean, darling.”

“I’ll make you see stars,” Crowley growls. But the threat is completely undermined by the embarrassing keening noise that punches its way out of Crowley’s throat when Aziraphale pushes two fingers into him.

“Now, what did I say about enjoying yourself?” The angel sounds inordinately pleased with himself, holding his thumb against Crowley’s clit. Crowley groans with annoyance and pleasure in equal measure, already so close to the brink—his hands come up and grip the backrest of the couch, trying to find purchase as he shudders, rocking against Aziraphale’s hand.

“Angel—”

“That’s it,” Aziraphale says softly. “You’re so good, Crowley, so beautiful like this—”

Aziraphale’s teeth close gently around his nipple, and the sharp burn tips Crowley over the edge as he collapses against Aziraphale, crying out with pleasure, his hips rolling helplessly as Aziraphale continues to thrust into him. Finally, he holds Aziraphale’s arm still, pulling the angel’s fingers out of himself and dropping to the other side of the couch, trying to catch his breath.

From here, Crowley can clearly see the wet patch he’s made on Aziraphale’s trousers. He wrinkles his nose in distaste and raises his fingers to miracle it away—but Aziraphale closes his hand around his, holding him in place.

“Don’t,” the angel says, his voice somewhat unsteady. “I want—that is, I’ll clean it myself. When I get back to the bookshop.”

Crowley watches him, suddenly unsure. It doesn’t seem like Aziraphale at all—he’s always been so particular about caring for his clothes. “If that’s what you want,” he says instead, dragging his hand over the bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers, relishing the moan it elicits from the angel, who’s already undoing his fly impatiently.

“Let me,” Crowley says quickly, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale’s. “Least I can do after all that.” He’s surprised to see the angel’s expression fall, as though something Crowley had said had disappointed him. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says hastily. “Everything’s… tickety-boo.” His eyes drop to their joined fingers, but he says nothing more. Instead, he withdraws his hand, watching as Crowley deftly undoes his fly. He looks up at the angel, the tips of his fingers resting on the hard line of Aziraphale’s cock, wondering how far he’d be allowed to go.

Aziraphale seems to know what he’s asking before he can say anything—he reaches down and pulls his own cock free of his trousers before he takes Crowley’s hand and closes his fingers around its considerable length.

“Show me how you like it, angel,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale’s grip tightens on Crowley’s fingers around his cock. Slowly, he moves their hands up and down, pulling at himself in a steady rhythm. Crowley’s gaze is fixed on their intertwined hands for a long moment before he lifts his eyes to Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s thrown his head back, his breath coming in short gasps of pleasure as their hands continue to move.

Crowley can do better than this. He isn’t a demon for nothing, he’s _good_ at what he does. He disentangles his fingers from Aziraphale’s, and the angel lets out a whine of protest. A smile tugs at Crowley’s lips as he climbs off the couch, teetering unsteadily on his heels for a moment before he kneels down, slotting himself between Aziraphale’s legs.

He inches closer, the carpet rough under his knees. “Just relax, angel,” he says, gently caressing Aziraphale’s thighs, coaxing him to spread his legs. Crowley has to make this good. Maybe if he does well enough, there really will be a next time. He allows his tongue to lengthen and split into two at the tip in his mouth as he wraps his fingers around the base of Aziraphale’s cock.

A hand tangles in his hair, and he looks up at the eyes darkened by his temptation, nothing left of their familiar blue but a thin ring around the pupils. Hot guilt bubbles in Crowley’s stomach. “Is thisss what you wanted?” His serpent’s tongue garbles the words.

Aziraphale looks at him for a long moment, his fingers running through Crowley’s curls. “You are all I ever wanted,” he says softly. “Crowley, my darling.”

Crowley doesn’t know what is worse, the fact that he’s been called _darling_ so many times he’s starting to like it, or that Aziraphale says it like he _means_ it. The guilt is clawing at his throat, sour and acidic as bile. He tears his eyes away from Aziraphale’s, turning his attention to the cock in his hand. He starts slow, stroking it carefully a few times before leaning forward and wrapping his lips around the head.

Fuck, it _burns._ A shudder goes through Crowley at the sting in his mouth, harsh and scorching—it’s so much worse than Aziraphale’s kisses. His toes curl with the pain, but he unhinges his jaw and takes Aziraphale all the way to the hilt, the sharp burn hitting the back of his throat.

There’s a throaty moan as the hand in Crowley’s hair tightens and Aziraphale’s hips jerk up helplessly into his mouth. Encouraged, he laves his tongue around Aziraphale’s cock, taking full advantage of its serpentine flexibility, before he tightens the circle of his mouth and begins moving up and down its length. His gaze darts up and he sees the angel’s eyes screwed shut with pleasure, moaning audibly even over the beat of the music.

Aziraphale’s cock is leaking in Crowley’s mouth with every suck—he can tell because the scorch of it is intensifying, spreading across his tongue, the sensation almost numbing. He makes the mistake of swallowing, and he stills for a moment, unable to hold back the whimper of pain that escapes him as the holy burn scrapes its way down his throat.

“Crowley?”

The hand in his hair is gentle, moving down to his jaw and urging him to look up. He takes one last lingering suck and pulls Aziraphale’s cock free of his mouth with a small pop before he meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The angel’s eyes are clouded with desire, but they’re also filled with concern, his brow creased with worry.

“Darling, are you all right?” Aziraphale’s fingers brush under Crowley’s cheek, and only then does he realise that his eyes have watered so much that the moisture’s run down his cheeks.

“Don’t, you’ll ruin my makeup,” he says, his voice hoarse in his aching throat.

Aziraphale ignores this entirely, his knuckles moving to Crowley’s other cheek to brush away the wetness there. “Is something—”

“Look, angel, it’s just, you know,” Crowley casts wildly about for something resembling an explanation. “It happens. When I do this.”

The angel’s eyes narrow. “This is something you do often, is it?”

Crowley’s fingers tighten against Aziraphale’s thighs in panic. “No. I told you. This isn’t the kind of thing that goes on around here.”

“Good.” Aziraphale leans forward, tracing around the outline of Crowley’s lips. “It must happen sometimes, but I hate to think of your mouth around someone else’s cock, you lovely thing.”

“Angel.” Crowley’s already begging for more of the burn that’s already fading on his tongue. “Let me.”

The angel guides him to his cock, moaning as Crowley’s lips gratefully close around the head. Crowley barely notices the burn now, revelling in the pain on his tongue. He sucks his cheeks in, moving up and down Aziraphale’s length, drunk on the uncertainty of what will happen when the angel comes—

To his surprise, Aziraphale’s hand tightens in his hair and tugs him off his cock. He glances up quickly to see the angel gasping, taking himself in hand and pulling once, twice, before he arches his back, a guttural moan in his throat as he comes, painting searing-hot lines across Crowley’s chest. He winces, but he’s more than a little proud. He hopes the stripes leave a mark—he wants to look at them when he’s alone, run his fingers over them, remember how he had watched the angel unravelling under his hands.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, looking down at where Crowley is still kneeling between his legs. “Come here.”

Crowley gets up, obediently settles into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s still shivering from his orgasm, the blue eyes hazy with pleasure, pupils still blown wide—how long is it going to take for the temptation to wear off? Crowley feels a sharp stab of guilt, wants to crawl back onto the floor on his knees, beg for forgiveness for what he’s done.

But before he can do anything, Aziraphale’s hand comes up, lightly brushing Crowley’s breast with one thumb. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’ve made such a mess of you.”

“No,” Crowley protests. “I wanted it.” He did. He does. His fingers come up and trail through the angel’s spend on his chest, feeling the burn spreading on his skin. Before he can think better of it, he lifts his hand and pushes two fingers into his own mouth.

He nearly gags around the white-hot burn in his mouth, but he licks his fingers and swallows—he feels it searing its way down every inch of his throat and his stomach. He can barely breathe, choking on the divine burn razing through him.

“Crowley?” He hasn’t realised he’s clenched his eyes shut until he opens them to see Aziraphale watching him, eyebrows knitting together. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Crowley says, but his voice is a hoarse rasp in his aching throat. He wraps his damp fingers around the angel’s cock, touching him gently—he’s already filling, hardening in Crowley’s fist. If Crowley does this well enough, maybe Aziraphale would want this. Maybe there would be a next time. “Think you can go again?”

Aziraphale bites his swollen lower lip, inhales sharply. “Will you let me have you?”

And what can Crowley say but yes? He’s never been able to refuse Aziraphale anything, no matter what he has to do to make it happen. He places his hands on the back of the couch to balance himself on his knees. Anything for his angel, he thinks, as he leans forward and kisses Aziraphale, the heat of his mouth almost soothing after the way his spend had clawed its way down Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale moans into his mouth, his hands roaming up and down Crowley’s thighs.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispers again, and this time Crowley’s chest tightens only a little. _Darling_ doesn’t burn when it comes from Aziraphale’s lips—it’s closer to a balm spreading its way through him, warming him gently. Aziraphale’s hands guide him lower, and Crowley can’t hold back the hiss of pain as the slick head of Aziraphale’s cock rubs against his slit.

For one moment, he’s overwhelmed with a very real terror that he might not survive this. His mouth and throat are still aching with the scalding heat of Aziraphale’s spend—he imagines that same sensation magnified a hundredfold if Aziraphale comes in him, incinerating him from the inside out, leaving him in ashes. He’s no longer certain he wants to keep going. Maybe he’d be lucky to only be discorporated. Maybe—

Every thought in his mind screeches to a stop when Aziraphale’s hands pull him down on his cock.

A full-body shudder goes through Crowley. Pleasure sharpened by the searing burn of divinity, echoing flares of heat along his neck as Aziraphale kisses his way up from his collarbone to his jaw.

“Crowley,” the angel says, half-groan, half-whisper. “Crowley—”

His hands grip the couch hard on either side of Aziraphale’s head. With an immeasurable effort, Crowley pushes himself up before sinking back down onto the angel’s cock, and it punches the breath right out of him. Aziraphale’s eyes are closed, head thrown back, moaning with each undulation of Crowley’s hips. So he does it again. Rolls his hips, gasping with pleasure, with pain. Again. Aching with emptiness before Aziraphale’s cock fills Crowley completely once more when he rocks back down. Again. He wonders through the fog of sensation at how well the two of them fit together. Again. Puzzle pieces interlocking. A perfect fit. Again, again, again, the pace quickening to an almost punishing speed.

Crowley’s thighs are trembling too much now—he collapses against Aziraphale, and his hands are lifting Crowley, pulling him back down, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Angel,” he manages. He’s cresting higher and higher, and at any moment, he’s going to crash. “Angel, keep going—”

“Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale gasps, his breath hot against Crowley’s throat. “Can I—”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, already too far gone to care, he’ll die either way if Aziraphale stops now, every inch of him shivering with need, teetering over a precipice, ready to fall. “Please, angel, _please—_ _”_

The pleasure that floods him when he comes is so absolute that his vision whites out, and he can only cling to Aziraphale, trying to remember how to breathe through the agony of his bliss, Aziraphale taking and taking and _taking_ from him—until at last, his teeth sink into Crowley’s shoulder, his hips stuttering as he spills into Crowley.

It’s too much, searing pleasure and excruciating pain all bound together in a single endless paroxysm—the sheer enormity of it overwhelms Crowley entirely. The last thing he remembers is the sensation of Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his temple before everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to NaroMoreau and Jenanigans1207 for the wonderful beta and the endless cheering, and Offgray for the last-minute polish!
> 
> Divinity kink for this chapter is inspired by [Milk, Tea, Wax](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478341) by rfsmiley - please check it out, it's spectacular!


	3. Witching Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have to think of yourself, too. My darling,” Aziraphale sighs. This part… it needs to be said aloud, and he steels himself. “How could you not tell me I was hurting you?”
> 
> Crowley’s jaw clenches visibly for a long moment. “I-I wanted to give you what you wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off - this update got very long all of a sudden, so I decided to cut it into two. We'll be wrapping everything up next chapter.
> 
> Second, there is now banner art for this fic by [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja), I owe them so much for motivating me to work on this fic again! You'll find the art embedded in the first chapter of this fic. Please check out the full version of the original art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935150/chapters/70962846), it's absolutely breathtaking and you HAVE to put it in your eyes.
> 
> CW for discussions about consent and sexual assault. But really this chapter is just full of feelings. 
> 
> More song recs for this chapter: [when the party's over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbMwTqkKSps) by Billie Eilish and [cellophane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkLjqFpBh84) by FKA twigs.

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store are a sterile, impersonal white, making the cup of frothy coffee sitting in front of Crowley look even more unappealing than he already knows it is. He doesn’t touch it, only stares at the steam curling into thin wisps, the brown rings of coffee on the table forming odd shapes. He thinks of figure eights, infinity symbols. An ouroboros forming at the base of his disposable paper cup.

“Lilith,” Eve finally says.

He lifts his eyes from the disgusting coffee to see her worried face, and his brows contract in confusion. “What?”

She doesn’t say anything at first, but Crowley catches the glance she exchanges with Delilah before she heaves a sigh. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but it will help.”

“You’re right,” Crowley says, slouching further down on the tiny stool, leaning against the glass behind him.

“Right about what?” Eve asks cautiously.

“ _I don_ _’t want to talk about it._ ”

Delilah purses her lips. “But you _have_ to. You don’t have to tell us about…” Her voice trails off, and Crowley sees the way her eyes flick down to the marks on his neck, the red of the divine burns interspersed with splotches of purple and blue and green bruises. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly self-conscious, and pulls his hair over his shoulder in a vain attempt to conceal them.

“It’s not just for you. It’s for all the other girls too,” Delilah tries again. “What if he comes back and asks for you again, or for someone else? We have to implement security measures here.”

“No. He… he came to see me.” Crowley doesn’t look up when he says it. He already knows what their faces are going to look like when he does. He tries very hard not to think about the angel’s promise of _next time._ “He won’t be asking for anyone else but me, so you don’t have to worry about the other girls.”

“Well, then, let us worry about _you,_ ” Delilah says sharply. “You know him, don’t you? Some sort of history there between you two?”

Crowley nods minutely, still staring at the paper cup of coffee on the table. Some pathetically sad song is playing over the convenience store’s speakers, the sound tinny and soft in Crowley’s ears. _I could lie, say I like it like that._ What was this human’s name? He tries to recall. Billie Eyelash? Something like that, anyway.

“Was he an old flame?” Delilah asks, and Crowley winces.

“It… it was never anything like that,” he mumbles.

“Someone you must care about, then,” Delilah persists. “Look, I’m not going to rag on you about what happened. It’s your strip club. You can sleep with whoever you goddamn please.” Crowley blinks when she blasphemes. “Only…” She pauses, as though trying to find the words for what she wants to say. “All I’m saying is that you made us go through all those consent workshops for a reason, and we might as well put them to use now.”

“Lilith,” Eve says, more gently. “I think what Delilah is trying to ask is whether you agreed to this. To whatever happened earlier.”

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “I did,” he said tonelessly.

“Did you want to do it?”

“I wanted to,” Crowley sighs. He did. “It just didn’t go the way I thought it would, is all.”

“You know you could have asked him to stop at any time?” Delilah says quietly. “If you were uncomfortable, or if he was hurting you?”

“I know that,” Crowley says. He doesn’t know why he’s letting himself be subjected to this interrogation, only that there’s something oddly cathartic about having the words for it pried out of him, as though they’re shards of glass embedded in his skin that need to be removed. Shrapnel, he thinks. The remnants of a war, violence, conflict. Hereditary enemies—isn’t that all they are to each other, after everything?

“And you know that you deserve to be treated with respect?” Delilah asks. “That under no circumstances do you deserve to be hurt or to be treated badly?”

Crowley opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say. He knows this, he does. But the girls don’t understand what it’s like, to have lived with a parched throat for six thousand years and to suddenly come across an oasis one day with enough water for him to drink his fill—only to discover that every sip would scald him, scraping its way down every inch of his throat and into his belly.

The metaphor’s getting away from him. The point is that he had his chance with Aziraphale, so he had taken it. He refuses to feel sorry about it, because he isn’t sorry at all. It’s hardly the angel’s fault they aren’t… physically compatible.

His stomach clenches at the thought. He had wanted it. He’d given himself to Aziraphale willingly, and it had been glorious, everything he had ever imagined and more, even though it had been excruciating. There’s nothing he regrets about it.

Except he’d woken up alone and naked on the couch in his dressing room, the angel’s spend wiped from his chest but with a searing ache still between his legs. He’d gotten up and stumbled to his vanity and looked at himself properly—not even the strong lights could hide the tender red skin where Aziraphale’s mouth had been, the stripes across his chest, or the bruises blooming on Crowley’s hips where strong fingers had held him tightly, the dark spots where teeth had dug into Crowley’s skin. Even his lips are red and swollen with more than just the force of Aziraphale’s demanding kisses.

Crowley’s body is a map of all the places Aziraphale had touched, the territory he had claimed. Crowley had traced his fingers over each and every one of the marks, committing them all to memory.

He _had_ wanted it. He would remember all of it, every single moment, every bruise and burn that Aziraphale had left on his skin.

He only wishes that Aziraphale had lingered a little longer. He tries not to, but he does. Maybe if Aziraphale had stayed, Crowley could pretend that it hadn’t just been the effect of his own temptation that had seduced the angel into his arms.

Perhaps it’s better this way, that Crowley has no way to pass it off as anything other than what it was—yet another facet of their long-standing Arrangement that both of them had simply complied with. Plain and simple, nothing more.

He has no right to be sitting here and moping. He has absolutely no right to be feeling… _used,_ discarded, disposable as the paper cup in front of him, dumped into his dressing room without even a word of goodbye. His throat is uncomfortably tight, his eyes prickling. He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and doesn’t say another word, but he lets Eve hold his hand for the rest of the time they sit there, their cups of greyish coffee growing cold on the table.

When they finally leave, the first rays of the dawn spilling over the horizon, he allows Delilah to fuss over his jacket, helping him turn up the collar to hide the bruises on his neck.

They walk him to his car, and he tries not to hobble too much, but he has to grit his teeth against the sharp burn that’s still lingering between his legs.

—

After a long, blistering hot shower, Crowley collapses into bed and sleeps for two and a half days.

In all honesty, he might have probably slept longer if he hadn’t been so on edge about the possibility of seeing Aziraphale again. What if he returns to Eden while Crowley is asleep? The thought of _next time_ haunts Crowley, even in his dreams. He can’t bear the thought, so he forces himself out of bed, gets dressed and heads to the club.

Eve and Delilah are adamant about keeping him off the stage for a few more days, so he spends the next two nights hovering in the bar behind Delilah, who’s so sick of Crowley by the end of it that she finally agrees to let Crowley perform on the third night.

The tricky part that Crowley hasn’t considered is just how difficult it is to conceal the bruised skin of his neck, his chest, his hips—a mess of black and blue, purple fading into green, red slowly subsiding into its usual paleness. Eve doesn’t say anything, only helps him apply concealer in the places he can’t reach.

There’s nothing he can do about the burns but wait. But even if he could do away with the bruises with a snap of his fingers, he can’t seem to bring himself to.

(At night, before he goes to sleep, he looks at himself in the mirror, traces the outline of the bruises where Aziraphale’s hands had pressed into his skin… and then he places his own fingers over them, digging in as hard as he can. To make the marks of the angel’s touch last as long as possible. He climbs under the covers, and his hand slips between his legs—and before long he’s coming, gasping for breath, remembering the sound of his name in the angel’s mouth as he had spilled into Crowley. The razor-sharp edge of pleasure burning through him, consuming him from the inside out.)

He inspects himself in his vanity, making sure none of the bruises or burns show after Eve has helped him cover them up. He makes up for it by changing up his outfits. Long-sleeved lacy things paired with leather booty shorts. He knows that sometimes, showing less skin is actually an advantage. Keeps the crowd gagging for more. They’ll never get it, of course, he thinks as he smirks at his own reflection.

But he looks up and sees Eve watching him in the mirror with a troubled look on her face. She tells him in a soft voice, _remember your own needs aren_ _’t second to anyone else’s._

It makes him wonder. Was it so wrong to have given Aziraphale what he wanted? All it had cost Crowley was a little pain, after all—was there really something so terrible about that?

On the fifth night, there’s a small commotion in the lobby. He peeks outside and flinches when he sees a familiar figure dressed in beiges and light blues arguing with Eve, who’s surrounded by four of his best bouncers. The angel is demanding to be let inside, to be allowed to speak to Crowley—

The door shuts behind him with a loud bang before Crowley realises it, and everyone turns in his direction. Aziraphale is looking at him, his blue eyes distressed and pleading, but Eve has an unyielding look on her face that Crowley has never seen before—and suddenly, he understands what she and Delilah have been trying to tell him all along.

He deserves better than this. He deserves to be loved, if not in the light of day, at least without pretensions, without complexities or pride. Not to be taken and used and… and _abandoned_ , as though he’s something expendable, a thing to be dispensed with. Single-use, one night only.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hopes that Aziraphale will use a miracle to clear the room of humans, leaving the two of them alone in the room. But the fantasy ends there. What happens afterwards? Crowley isn’t quite certain what he wants anymore, not after that.

He lingers at the doorway long enough to hear the bouncers escorting the angel off the premises. He doesn’t look back. No more of this rubbish about _next time._

This time, he’s had enough.

—

The darkness is slowly giving way to daylight, the sky turning grey as the dawn approaches. Aziraphale stands outside the convenience store, blowing on his fingers. It’s an uncommonly cool night, and he’s already had to use a miracle or two to keep the more enterprising humans away as he waits for the club to close.

After Crowley had turned away, Aziraphale hadn’t had the heart to call out to him—what right does he have to even look at Crowley after the way he had left him not so many nights ago? He should have had the decency to at least finish looking after Crowley. He should have made sure Crowley was clean and dry, properly clothed—and instead, he had run off like a frightened rabbit when the panic ignited in him at the sight of the burns on Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to hurt him. He had no idea he had been hurting Crowley at all. The thought has left him wracked with guilt for days, unable to eat, his thoughts constantly dwelling on Crowley.

What must Crowley think of him now, after what Aziraphale has put him through? The thought alone makes Aziraphale shudder.

Truth be told, he doesn’t even know what he’s still doing here, waiting for Crowley to emerge. He only knows that he needs to see Crowley one more time, selfish as it might sound, hoping against hope that Crowley might allow him a chance to explain. He has always been generous to a fault, always permitting Aziraphale anything and everything he’s ever asked for.

Just then, he hears the back door of the building swing open, and low voices travel in his direction. He turns his head and catches a glimpse of red hair, a thin figure arm in arm with another, seeking refuge in the darkness. Despite his better judgment, he approaches close enough to see the redheaded figure entwine itself around the taller person, a sharply defined chin lifting, lips pressing together in the dim light.

There’s a light tap on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He turns abruptly, unable to hold back the flare of his temper—

“Oi!” Crowley rubs at the hollow of one cheek, looking hurt. “What was that for?”

“Oh… Oh, goodness.” Aziraphale feels faint, sighing with relief and annoyance mixed together in equal measure, but it’s followed immediately by the guilt flooding through him in waves. “My dear, I’m so terribly sorry, I thought—”

“No need to explain,” Crowley cuts him off, his lip curling in irritation. He turns away without another word, and Aziraphale realises he’s going to miss his chance if he doesn’t do anything now. He reaches out and grasps Crowley’s hand, entwining their fingers together. Crowley stops in his tracks without turning, but Aziraphale can see the way his shoulders are rising and falling, his breath coming shallow and fast.

“Crowley, dearest,” Aziraphale says, the words catching in his throat. “Please.”

“I don’t know what you were hoping to achieve, angel, but I’m sure that smiting me wasn’t about to help your cause.”

“I’m sorry. I only thought—well, I was in a bit of a temper, you see…”

“I don’t see, actually,” Crowley says, making to pull their hands apart, but Aziraphale clings to him heedlessly.

“Crowley, _please,_ ” Aziraphale says, a desperate edge entering his voice. “I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, or if you no longer want anything to do with me, but please… give me a chance to explain.”

Crowley flicks a careless gaze at him over his shoulder. “Nothing to explain, angel,” he says shortly. “Everything that happened the other night, it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t set that temptation on you. Isn’t that right?”

Aziraphale flinches at the coldness of Crowley’s tone. “Oh, Crowley,” he says, unable to keep the trembling out of his voice. “It was… oh, it was so much more than that to me. But if that was all it was to you,” he takes a deep breath, trying not to sob, “tell me now, and I assure you there will be no hard feelings on my part—”

 _Finally,_ Crowley turns to look at him, the golden gaze fixed soberly on Aziraphale’s face. “Angel,” he says slowly. “I don’t think I quite understand what you’re trying to say here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says nervously. “Oh, of course. Would… would you perhaps consider coming to the bookshop for a drink, in that case? So that we can talk properly?”

He holds his breath, half expecting Crowley to say no without a second thought—but to his surprise, Crowley looks down at their joined hands, as though he’s considering his options.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Lift home?”

—

“Shall I open a bottle of wine?”

“If you like,” Crowley says, collapsing into an indifferent pile of limbs onto the bookshop sofa. “Just the one, mind.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says hastily. The last thing he wants is to impose on Crowley now, after everything he’s already done. “I-I don’t want to keep you.”

He scuttles into the backroom, trying to find the last bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he’d stashed away, nearly sending half a dozen other bottles cascading onto the floor in his haste.

“Everything alright in there?”

“Yes, yes, all fine!” Aziraphale calls back, but his hands are shaking as he rearranges the bottles with as much care as he can manage, clutching the Châteauneuf-du-Pape to his chest timidly as he re-enters the bookshop with two glasses in hand. He uncorks the bottle with a wave, pouring the wine and handing one glass to Crowley.

Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way Crowley flinches minutely when their fingers brush around the glass, and his heart sinks. Is Crowley so disgusted by him, to be acting this way? He downs the contents of his glass much more quickly than what should have been warranted by a wine so delectable.

“Well?” Crowley says at last, his fingers playing with the glass. He hasn’t taken a single sip. “Out with it, then.”

“I… I wanted to talk about what happened. At Eden. The club, obviously, not—”

“I know what you meant, Aziraphale,” Crowley says wearily.

Aziraphale clears his throat, delays the inevitable a little more by pouring himself a second glass of wine and taking a sip. “A lovely wine, don’t you think?” He tries to smile at Crowley, who’s staring blankly into the depths of his own glass. “Is… is it not to your taste?”

Crowley doesn’t dignify this with a response of any sort. Aziraphale hesitates for a moment longer, his fingers worrying at the chain of his pocket watch. “You see, I’ve been thinking about what happened. The way I behaved.” He tries to choose his words carefully, but for once, he can’t seem to find the words at all for what he wants to say. “It was wrong of me to have… to have acted the way I did. I should never have—”

“What? Touched me?” Crowley barks out a laugh that rings empty in Aziraphale’s ears.

“Why, yes,” Aziraphale says, feeling wretched. “I should never have asked it of you. And the way you were afterwards… I-I saw you, and oh, Crowley, it was truly abominable—”

“Was it now?” Crowley leaps to his feet and begins pacing around the bookshop agitatedly. “Which part of it was so terrible, you think? The part where you charged a lap dance with a demon to Heaven? Or was it that you fell under a temptation unexpectedly? Properly thwarted by a demonic wile, weren’t you?”

Aziraphale can’t stand the way Crowley is sneering at him, not now of all times. “I’m trying to _apologise_ , Crowley—”

“Oh, you’re trying to _apologise?_ Because let me tell you, _angel,_ you’re doing a spectacularly terrible job of it.” Aziraphale recoils, but Crowley barrels on relentlessly. “Not that I think you have anything to apologise for, but would you care to enlighten me? What exactly is going on here?”

A sharp ache is beginning to build in Aziraphale’s chest. _For hurting you,_ he thinks. _For not even_ knowing _that I was hurting you. For not even having the decency to hold you until you woke up._ “For… for everything that happened that night. I should never have done any of it. And I… I am so sorry.” He waves a shaking hand at Crowley and his black turtleneck, every inch of his skin covered from the neck down. “Just look at yourself,” he says, and his voice fails on the last word.

Crowley comes to a standstill in the middle of the bookshop, his throat working visibly. He turns away before he speaks again. “Well, I’m sorry it was such a horrible experience for you.” He lets out a laugh, but it sounds closer to a sob. Aziraphale’s chest tightens. “What a trial for an angel to have touched a Fallen creature like me, eh? I suppose I should stay out of your way, lest I tempt you into any more unsavoury transactions.”

Aziraphale presses his fingers to his mouth, stifling the broken sound that’s threatening to break through his lips. _That_ _’s not it at all,_ he wants to say, but he can’t seem to make his tongue form the words. “No,” he whispers. “Crowley, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I don’t understand?” Crowley whirls around, and for a split second, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his golden eyes—red-rimmed and wet, tight around the corners—before Crowley pushes his dark glasses up his nose, hiding his eyes from view. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to you talk about how deeply unappealing the entire prospect of sleeping with me was when the temptation finally wore off. I _know_. You know that thing they say about salt and wounds? Yeah, that.” He resumes pacing. “I thought… I thought we were _friends,_ Aziraphale. You could have at least—” He stops abruptly, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“At least what?” Aziraphale murmurs. His hands have gone cold—he has to clasp them tightly together in his lap to conceal their trembling.

Crowley opens his mouth as though he’s about to speak, but he closes it and shakes his head instead. “Doesn’t matter, angel,” he finally mutters. “Just forget about it, alright? Forget it ever happened. Let’s just… let it go. I’ll come back in a few decades. See how you’re feeling about the Arrangement when this has all blown over a little.”

A few _decades?_ Aziraphale can hardly endure the thought of it. But Crowley isn’t giving him a chance to speak. “Well, if that’s all,” he says, the picture of forced calm, his insouciant grin firmly in place, “I’d best be getting on.” He turns away and lifts a hand in farewell.

Aziraphale’s frozen in his seat, unable to call out to Crowley, but there’s a strange finality about this goodbye—and something in Aziraphale screams at him to get up and _move_ —and before he knows it, he’s crossed the room, his hand clutching the back of Crowley’s jacket.

“Crowley,” he says, and his breath hitches. “ _Please_. I’m sorry. I-I’m going about this all wrong.” He takes a ragged inhale. “I know you set a temptation. I could have stopped myself, but I didn’t. I let myself sit there and take it, because I _wanted_ it. I wanted to have some excuse to…”

“To be with me,” Crowley says flatly without turning.

“Yes,” Aziraphale admits. “I was… I _am_ a coward, Crowley.” The next words tear himself from his throat. “I wanted you. I’ve wanted you for the longest time. And it seemed to be the only chance I would ever have. So I took it.” He shudders. “I’m so sorry. It was wrong of me, and I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, his voice a soft rasp, “if there was anyone taking advantage, it was _me._ I knew you were under the influence of my temptation. And I went ahead and—”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupts. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. I walked into it of my own volition, don’t you see? Do you really think I couldn’t have miracled away your temptation if I had wanted to? Of course I could have. I knew exactly what I was doing.” His hand tightens on Crowley’s jacket. He can’t help himself—he leans forward and rests his forehead on Crowley’s back, the space between his shoulder blades. “Please, _please,_ ” he says, his throat thick with emotion, “don’t you see that I lo—”

Crowley turns suddenly and presses his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Don’t say it, angel,” he says urgently. “We can’t. You _know_ we can’t.”

Aziraphale lifts a hand and covers Crowley’s with his own. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s palm lightly, making sure he keeps his lips shut tight, before he pulls Crowley’s hand away. “I won’t say it,” he says, blinking away the moisture in his eyes. “Not if you don’t want me to. But you have to know it—tell me you know it, Crowley.”

He looks up at Crowley, but his expression is unreadable with his sunglasses on. “Aziraphale,” he says quietly. “You must know by now that it isn’t… it _can_ _’t_ ever happen for us. You said it yourself. You saw me after—after all that, didn’t you?” He lifts a hand to his collar, and he hesitates for a moment before he pulls it down, revealing the skin of his neck, burned skin mottled with black and blue and purple. Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back involuntarily in horror as Crowley sighs and lets go of the fabric, covering up the bruises and burns once more. “What’s the point?” His shoulders sag in defeat, his body curling forward, arms wrapping around himself. “Why even bother saying it out loud if it wouldn’t—it _can’t_ ever happen?”

“It could. It can,” Aziraphale protests, catching hold of Crowley’s lapels. “Just because we can’t—we can’t have the physical aspect of it… it doesn’t make it any less real. Please, darling.”

He feels how Crowley shudders when he says _darling,_ the way he shies away from Aziraphale. He lets go of Crowley immediately. “I’m terribly sorry, that was so presumptuous, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale’s hands, laying them flat against his chest. It feels just like what he had done at that moment when they had been in that tiny room together, Crowley dragging Aziraphale’s hands down his body—but for some reason, this gesture is so much more charged, _intimate_ even. “I like it,” he whispers. “When you call me that.”

_Oh._

Crowley’s words set a tiny flame of hope burning in Aziraphale’s chest. “My darling,” he says again, smoothing Crowley’s jacket under his hands. “Crowley, I…” He looks up at Crowley. His glasses have slid down his nose, revealing his eyes, golden to the very corners. “I love you,” Aziraphale says quietly, and he can feel the moisture trickling down his face. “ _I love you_ ,” he says again, the breath catching in his throat. “You must know it, I-I can’t stand you not knowing.”

He can feel the way Crowley is holding his breath—his chest is still under Aziraphale’s palms but for the pounding of his heart.

Finally, he exhales, long and ragged. “I know,” he says, so softly that it’s nearly inaudible. “I know now, angel.” He smiles, his lips trembling at the corners, and it breaks Aziraphale’s heart. He reaches up and pushes his glasses up his nose, concealing his eyes from view once more. “And that’ll be something for me to hold on to.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale whispers. He takes Crowley’s face, cups it in both his palms. His beloved Crowley. He almost wants to ask if he can take Crowley’s sunglasses off, but he knows it would be too much to strip Crowley of his last bit of armour.

“We can’t,” Crowley says. He hangs his head—even with his eyes covered by his glasses like this, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley won’t look him in the eye. “I can’t give you what you want. Your needs shouldn’t be secondary to anyone else’s, including mine.”

“And neither should yours,” Aziraphale says quietly, and Crowley freezes under his touch. “Would you truly settle for this? You deserve more, so much _more_ than what I can give you—”

But Crowley is already shaking his head. “Who cares about _deserving,_ Aziraphale?” He grips Aziraphale’s wrist firmly. “You, you’re all I have ever wanted.”

“That is the whole point,” Aziraphale says. “But you have to think of yourself _,_ too _._ My darling,” he sighs. This part… it needs to be said aloud, and he steels himself. “How could you not tell me I was hurting you?”

Crowley’s jaw clenches visibly for a long moment. “I-I wanted to give you what you wanted.”

“That’s not—” Aziraphale blurts out before he catches himself. “You should have asked me to stop,” he says instead, willing his voice not to break. “If it was too much… if I was causing you pain—”

“I wanted it, too,” Crowley mumbles. There are tears trickling down his face, under the dark sunglasses. “I did, angel. I mean it.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, shushing Crowley gently, wiping the moisture away with his thumbs. “Not like that,” he whispers. “It… it shouldn’t have cost you that much. It pains me so much to think I hurt you. You understand, don’t you?

Crowley nods wordlessly, his lower lip trembling. Aziraphale can no longer bear it—he pulls Crowley into his arms, and Crowley _collapses,_ burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck, his entire weight falling on Aziraphale. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs. “My love.”

“Yours,” Crowley says, his voice muffled against Aziraphale’s collar. “Yours from the moment I saw you, angel, _angel—_ _”_

“Hush,” Aziraphale tries to soothe him, “It’s alright. I know.”

“No,” Crowley says, pulling away. “You don’t—”

“I do,” Aziraphale says firmly, and tugs Crowley’s head back down on his shoulder. They linger in that moment, Aziraphale combing his fingers through the soft red hair. “I love you,” he says again, and bites his tongue before he can say anything else. He doesn’t have to make this any harder than it has to be.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and his voice breaks. “Will you… will you kiss me?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, immediately dismayed, “how could you ask me to—”

But then Crowley pulls off his sunglasses, and his eyes are wide with despair—how could Aziraphale refuse him anything now?

He leans forward and kisses Crowley lightly, keeping his lips shut tight.

Crowley pulls away at once. “At least kiss me like—like you _mean_ it,” he says, so forlornly that it wrings Aziraphale’s heart to the core.

“I do mean it,” he says, and he can’t help the sob in his chest. “I do, darling, it’s just—”

“Please,” Crowley says, his lips trembling. “Just… just this one time, and I’ll never ask again. I promise.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know how either of them are going to walk away from this, only that they will have to, somehow. He leans forward and lets their lips meet once more, kissing Crowley as sweetly as he can manage.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs against his mouth, and presses against him harder, his lips parting. Aziraphale sighs, unable to resist, his tongue darting out to meet Crowley’s—

But Crowley pulls away, his eyes round, breathing fast.

“Angel,” he says, the pads of his fingers brushing over his lips. 

A wave of horrified guilt washes over Aziraphale at once. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Crowley says, a look of wonder on his face. “It… it doesn’t hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies to Billie Eilish, I'm legitimately a fan. 
> 
> Thank you as always to NaroMoreau and Jenanigans1207, and Offgray who yelled at me while I was writing this lmao. Happier times coming up in the last chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


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